Victory March
by Evette
Summary: After the war Harry is left broken and Draco has never been much for fixing things. (warnings for: language, violence, abuse, dark themes, angst, MM slash, some sexual situations)


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Oh, he's pretty when he screams. Draco likes it when the tears roll down Harry's cheek, his voice muffled trying to hold back sobbing from the pain. Harry's chest heaves up and down, his thin pale body an artwork of bruises and scars.   
  
He sits there, wand in hand, watching the sainted boy who lived scream in pain, curse after curse slipping from Draco's lips. When it's over, Harry pulls himself from the dirty wood floor, blood running from his lips; he stands defiantly in front of Draco, a bitter smile on his thin face.  
  
"Still couldn't get me to say it." He wipes his mouth off with his arm. Draco sulks, he knows that he most likely never will, but that doesn't stop the game.  
  
*****  
  
Draco told himself that he wasn't searching for him; he was doing as he wished, enjoying spending what money the Malfoy family had left. He spent his money and time on Muggle cars, pubs, and girls that wore heavy perfume and drooled for his accent.   
  
He'd heard Potter went bonkers after Voldemort fell, wouldn't talk to anyone and sat in a corner by himself.   
  
He'd been at the ministry the day they tried to give him honor of some sort for defeating the Dark Lord. Fudge still in charge, sitting up in a place of honor, his old, wrinkled face beaming with pride as he looked down at the broken boy who sat in the center of the room.   
  
Potter was already so thin by then. Hair tangled and sticking out, his robes hanging from him. He didn't raise his head up for anyone to look him in the eye.  
  
Draco had stood still, hidden in the corner, hood pulled up over his head. It's not as if he were a fugitive or anything, other than the fact that he was actually supposed to be in Azkaban. Minor detail really, and Draco was not a details man.   
  
He watched as people made speeches, lists of names for those lost read aloud. Glorious thanks given over and over again to the boy who still lived.   
  
And every time they said his name, Potter's hands wrapped more and more tightly around the chair. Draco smiled at the idea of watching those veins spill out blood.   
  
They hung a medal around his neck. A large gold medal, shining, with a bright red ribbon. It seemed to pull him down, his body looking as if it were going to sink into the floor.   
  
Potter had stood there, fingering the gold and ribbon weighing down his neck, and then he walked. He walked down from the stage, through the mass of people, and slamming the door behind him.   
  
As he had watched with delight at the mess Potter was, Draco had no idea what a wreck he could be. Thin bones, pale skin twisted with scars, eyes that were empty when they didn't have tears.   
  
Draco didn't want to find him; he didn't want to spend almost two years trying to find where Potter had washed up. He had to.  
  
In the days after he'd watched him walk out that door, he'd sat around the old crumbling Malfoy Manor thinking about Potter offing himself, gone mad in an alley somewhere, all the horrible things that could happen to him.   
  
It'd started as a curiosity; it was like big game hunting. He'd followed rumors from tavern to grungy pub. Black teethed desk clerks at vermin infested motels whispering in his ears about the man with the scars, that man that got kicked out for drinking too much and never paying for anything, who was always rude to them, anyway.   
  
Draco had dragged himself through skeevy pubs and hotels, learning to tolerate Muggles just to see what they'd tell him.   
  
He'd found him in a Muggle dance club surrounded by a mass of people, throbbing music and blinking lights. He followed him for days, watching as he came to the same booth in the night club every night, drinking until the sun started to peek out and the thugs in charge herded the bleary-eyed ravers out.  
  
He followed him and found him shattered, pieces strewn about a dingy single room.   
  
Draco loved playing with the pieces.  
  
*****  
  
Draco didn't know what to make of him. He sat in front of the door waiting for Harry's return; he idly cursed the rats that ran across the hall, giggling as they squealed. One squealed and ran down the corridor, just passing Potter's feet as he crossed the threshold.  
  
"Good to see you're finally dealing with something on your own level Malfoy," Harry spat out, pushing open the door and walking around Draco.   
  
"Is that all you have to say to me then? Going to summon the guard to have me arrested, right? Maybe we should talk about old times? How's that bitch Granger?" Draco followed him into the room. They stood facing one another,  
  
"I should kill you," Harry said, through clenched teeth. Harry turned and walked away, disappearing into the bathroom. Draco followed him and watched as the other man washed his hands, smoothing back his tangled hair with water. He stood and watched as Potter pulled his clothes off, not looking at Draco, in fact he didn't seem to acknowledge his existence. Draco stood staring at the scars, red marks along his chest, crooked beautiful places.  
  
He sat down on the bed and watched as Potter threw his clothes into a pile in the corner of the room. Potter lay down on the bed, keeping his distance from Draco.   
  
Draco turned and stared at him, the single light bulb hanging over the bed casting an orange glow over the two of them. Still through the hazy light, Draco could see the lines across Potter's chest. Draco rested his hand on Harry's chest, allowing his breathing to fall into synch with the slow, steady rhythm of the other man's. Draco traced his hand down the longest deep red one, starting just below Potter's chin, which ran in a crooked line down his torso.   
  
"Aren't you going to make me leave?" he asked not looking up.  
  
"If I did would it do any good?" Harry answered. Draco sat quietly for a moment a smile on his face as his hand made a trail along Harry's chest.  
  
"This one, It's mine isn't it?" Draco whispered, not needing an answer. Just looking at Harry, he felt the joy that he'd had when giving him that curse. When he closed his eyes briefly, he could hear the scream. "Does it still hurt?" Harry ignored him.  
  
Draco shook his coat off and threw it lazily on the floor. He looked into Harry's face.  
  
"You're not even afraid of me are you? You should be." Draco asked, a smile still on his face.   
  
Harry reached behind the pillow, slowly pulling out his wand.  
  
"If I cared, if I feared you in the slightest you'd have been dead before you got to the doorway." Harry pointed the wand in Draco's direction, never looking at him.   
  
Draco looked at Harry, his face twisted up in anger, "You should fear me." He continued to run his hand along the scar on Harry's chest. "I gave this to you didn't I? I could do it again and you won't move cause you're Harry Potter. The great and wonderful one that doesn't hurt or kill . . ." Draco's voice had taken on wistful sound, but he stopped and a cold, wicked smile spread across his face.   
  
He watched as Harry's face tightened up, eyes closed, and hands holding tightly to the thin bed sheets. Draco let his hand rest gently beneath Harry's navel; he took a deep breath before saying, "No, he never hurts does he except . . ." He stopped for a second, looking directly at Harry, "Tell me Potter what were my father's last words? You were there, you should remember, right?" Harry's eyes remained closed, and Draco went on, "Does it hurt, Potter? When you think about the blood on your hands, does your little heart ache?" Harry slowly opened his eyes and looked at him. Firmly, but quietly he asked,   
  
"Do you want me to say I'm sorry?"   
  
"Are you?"  
  
"I would never apologize to you," Harry said coolly, turning away from Draco, he stared up at the ceiling.   
  
"I think you should get down on your knees and beg my forgiveness." Draco rose and drew his wand from his pocket. There was a flash and Harry's body jerked up off the bed, his eyes clenched tightly together in pain.  
  
*****  
  
Harry saw it coming. At least, he thinks he did. He should have. But fucking hell the pain, bright red light, all the muscles in his body pounding, his skin feeling as if it were going to be ripped from his body. He told himself he heard Draco laughing, but all he really heard was blood pounding through his ears.   
  
It was over and he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His breath hard and coming in deep gasps, he turned and pointed his wand at Draco. His voice quiet, he said  
  
"Imperius." Draco's body jerked, his eyes wide with surprise. Harry sat up, staring at the other man, he watched as Draco stood still, waiting for Harry to command him. "You can't shake it off can you? I think someone once said it had something to do with strength of mind, but he was a nutter so I don't really know. Which I guess explains a lot." Harry licked his lips and looked intently at Draco. "Go on now, be good and pick up your wand," Draco woodenly reached down and grasped his wand in his hand again. "Now then," Harry said firmly, planting himself in front of Draco, he spread his arms out to his sides a smile and took a big breath, "curse me like you did before." Draco moved and emotionlessly uttered the curse, bright light spilling all over the room. Harry screamed involuntarily as his body jerked and hit the floor with a thud.   
  
He'd never appreciated the release one could achieve through pain before. It amazed him the thoughts that didn't cross his mind as he writhed around on the floor, muscles spasming.   
  
His head was quiet. No screaming loved ones, no hands covered in blood. Later he would wonder if this were what Hermione had felt. If she had discovered a world much better in her mind than there actually was.  
  
When the burning wore off, when Harry could open his eyes, he did one thing.   
  
"Do it again, Draco." And Draco did.  
  
*****  
  
That was the only time Harry had to make Draco curse him.   
  
The first time went on for hours. Harry had lain there, bruises forming on his arms from the impact with the floor, new scars opening up along his chest. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot.   
  
He wasn't sure when the Imperius curse had worn off Draco, but of course the other man never needed actual direction to torture Harry. But Harry had loved seeing Draco doing whatever he said, that glassy look glazing over those cold blue eyes, the wooden motions, not having to hear that snide voice unless *he* wanted to.  
  
After it was over there was sleep, deep and heavy, the kind where you seem to be bolted to the bed and you remember nothing afterward. Harry fell asleep lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. When he awoke he was covered by Draco's coat; Draco had taken the bed.   
  
*****  
  
"You're a sick bastard, Potter." Draco sneered at him, kicking him in the ribs. Harry sat up, propping himself up on his elbows; wincing as he moved. Draco sat down on the bed.   
  
This game was weeks old now, a practiced and unperfected routine. Harry would spend the mornings in various states of undress typically drunk on whatever Draco felt like buying. Draco would lie around generally taunting him while entertaining himself by draining the small rooms electricity with various forms of Muggle entertainment.   
  
"You can leave whenever you're bloody well ready. Don't actually want you hanging about," Harry muttered, pulling himself up from the floor. He ran his hands through his hair, breathing deeply. He looked around the room.   
  
"Your clothes," Draco's nose wrinkled up as he pointed to a corner of the room, "are over there." Draco smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in his thick wool sweater; he picked miniscule pieces of lint from his pressed slacks.  
  
Draco watched as Harry pulled on a pair of blue jeans; they hung loosely from his hips and dragged on the floor. He couldn't imagine at any time Harry had ever fit those pants. The scars were starting to blend together on his chest, a mass of brightly colored marks stretched out over the bruised and broken canvas of Harry's skin.   
  
"Don't stare, Malfoy," Harry spat out at him, returning from the small kitchenette with a lit cigarette and an almost empty liquor bottle. Harry sat down on the bed next to him. Draco waved his hands around in front of his face and pulled his sweater over his nose.  
  
"Bleh, do you have to smoke those revolting things around me?" he asked through his sweater. Harry smiled and blew a puff of smoke in his direction. "I hate you, you know," Draco said pulling his sweater down, still looking at the other man in disgust.   
  
Harry just laughed at him, took a large drink from the bottle and leaned back on the bed.   
  
"What the hell is this?" He asked pointing at the screen.   
  
"Cable pornography. Amazing things muggles have, huh?"  
  
"You're paying for this, right?" Harry asked, still looking confused.   
  
"I pay for everything," Draco answered staring at the screen. This brought a derisive laugh from Harry.   
  
They both sat, staring at the screen, listening to the soft moans come out mangled through the crap television.   
  
"I don't get it," Harry muttered, as he blew out a cloud of smoke.   
  
"What's to get, you moron? Two girls with enormous tits licking each other and bending in ways I didn't realize people could do without magical assistance."  
  
Harry sighed, "Why are we watching this?"  
  
"Because some of aren't complete gits and still remember that there's a world outside this vile room."  
  
Harry shrugged at him and continued to stare confusedly at the television. "So what's the point?"   
  
"The point is you watch these girls doing unseemly and possibly unnatural things and you have a good wank," Draco answered.   
  
They sat staring at the screen watching as the blonde one used a plastic thing on the redhead's arse. Draco laughed, as the redhead screamed inaudible words of pleasure.  
  
"She remind you of a Weasley?" He snickered.   
  
"Does she you?" Harry asked, plainly.  
  
"Red hair, obviously willing to do anything that moves. Hell, I'm wondering if that is her."  
  
"Fuck off," Harry answered bitterly.  
  
"And then what would you do?" Draco asked. He turned suddenly and stared at him.   
  
"Get along fine without you, just like before," Harry replied. Harry rolled over and looked at him, eyes hooded over. Draco lost himself for a moment staring at the slowly healing veins in the other man's eyes.   
  
"That's amusing." Draco rolled his eyes. "You just waft around until someone, somewhere scrapes you off the floor and the Daily Prophet has the final, irrefutable proof that Potter is cracked? Wait, I should report the story myself."  
  
"Yes, and you can tell the fascinating story about you living with cracked, mad, out of his tree boy that lived in a ramshackle American Muggle apartments watching blurry cable pornography?" Harry asked.  
  
"If they paid me for it? Certainly."   
  
"You'd do anything for money wouldn't you?" Harry asked.   
  
"Some of us appreciate maintaining a lifestyle; you'd do well to think of that, if you ever intend to do more than drink and invent ways of torturing yourself."  
  
"I don't torture myself," Harry leaned over and put out his cigarette on the worn gold medal on the bedside table. "That's why I've got you." He smiled.   
  
"Oh toss off, Potter. You'd drag Muggles off the street and make them perform your various acts of perversion on you. Bloody marvelous with the Imperius curse now, aren't you?"  
  
Harry laughed at him, holding his stomach with one long thin arm. His hair was too long now and Draco often found he had the urge to chop it. It hung in unruly locks covering his ears, unwashed and dirty.   
  
Harry started staring up at the ceiling; it was damned annoying to Draco. He'd spent too many years hating this thing next him, adoring the idea of watching him destruct had filled - *still* filled him with a sense of glee. He loved watching him scream and ache, he adored the way Harry didn't sleep unless he was exhausted, and how the first thing he did when he woke up was to start drowning his reality in an amber toned glaze. He loved Harry demanding Draco help shatter him every night. The way his eyes rolled back and he surrendered to Draco. Oh, he hated him, but he loved watching him break. He was interrupted by the shard of glass himself speaking.  
  
"Why are you here? It's entertainment, isn't it?" Harry's voice was quiet, simple. His words seemed to trail off to nowhere.   
  
"Damn right it is," Draco answered defensively.   
  
They sat quietly for a while; Draco turned up the television volume, and they continued to watch the parade of scantily clad female sex antics until Harry finally broke in with,   
  
"I'm out of cigarettes, why don't you go get some?" Draco stared at him for a moment, sighed, and made his way to the door. "Oy, why don't you see if can get some more of this whiskey? Damn muggle stuff's like drinking water."   
  
Draco just walked out, making a mental list and trying to remember what kinds of cigarettes that arsehole smoked.  
  
*****  
  
He's spinning. Or that's what it feels like. Plastered to the floor, bright colors in his eyes and fuck, there is nothing else in this world right now but the pain and that's how he likes it. Draco has started talking. He teases and prods at Harry. It's just another part of the game.   
  
"You think you deserve this don't you. Few drops of blood on your hands and you're martyr to the world?"   
  
Harry's too hurt to be amused, yet for a moment he thinks that at least Christ got to die. He was nailed to the cross and got to move on. Harry's never been able to dig the nails from his arms, and no matter how much blood there is he can't ever seem to bleed himself dry.  
  
They tried to give him kind words and congratulations; things to sooth the aches and pains they thought he had. They'd hug him and assure him things were going to be better now. It was over, they cried and patted him on the back. Happy days and smiles. He'd sat at parties, where they cheered him for murder, where he'd notice the missing faces more than the ones that were there.   
  
He sees ghosts everywhere; he just wishes they'd talk to him. Then again, if Draco weren't here, Harry thinks he'd be able to fade off to nothing. He'd just wake up one day and find he has floated off.   
  
*****  
  
Draco keeps wondering if this is still a game. He has no issue with seeing that broken body lying on the floor, begging for pain; he's got no problem with twisting the nail in.   
  
He worries when he wants to clean up the wounds afterward, to wipe the blood from Harry's lip. He worries when one night Potter doesn't get back up from the floor, when he just lies there, all bloodshot eyes and almost death. Draco kicks him hard in the ribs, the toe of his shoe leaving a mark on that torn up skin.  
  
He doesn't mean to shout. No, he doesn't, it's not like it bothers him, he'd be the one that did it. He could kill the boy who had lived. He leans down and starts shaking him violently, cursing and somewhere in there he shouts that he's never doing this again and that the bastard can choose either to let him kill him or to let him go.   
  
He takes it all back when his heart stops and he sees green eyes open underneath heavy lids.  
  
"I hate you," Draco mutters, dropping Harry's shoulder to the floor. He does, he hates Potter more than anything he can imagine, he hates him so that he wants to smother him sometimes; he sits there watching his fitful dreams, the way he tosses around on the floor in whatever position he passed out.   
  
The boy who lived is a man who can't. He's man who's terrified of his mind. He's torn and shattered into a million bits, ripping apart those that come near him.   
  
Draco's been pulled in, those marks leaving their print all over him; he would wash them off if he knew how.   
  
*****  
  
It was summer when Draco followed him home; now there's snow coming in through holes in the wall and he won't stop bitching about it. However, it's the longest Harry's managed to stay in one place. Harry sits on the floor, shirtless, shoving bits of trash in the small holes, laughing as the wind blows them out and the plastic goes flying across the room. Draco rolls his eyes.  
  
"We could move," Draco says with a sigh.  
  
Harry snorts, "Live off your dad's money somewhere?" He watches a cigarette pack fly across the floor and hit Draco's foot.  
  
"Well I was going to sell you into prostitution, but then I realized no one would have you," Draco replies, kicking the box back across the floor. "You're such a damn child."   
  
Harry scowls and pushes himself up from the floor, he carefully hitches his pants up around his hips. He steps carefully around the little puddles of melted snow on the floor, jumping a little when his bare feet step in the cold patches. Staring at the empty refrigerator, he grumbles and slams the door in frustration.   
  
"Nothing," He mutters simply, sitting down on the floor in front of Draco, knees pulled up to his chest. A shiver passes through his body.   
  
It's barely noon and he's already feeling it, tired bones hurting. He's not sure if it's recovery from the night before or the disintegration he feels when reality starts creeping in. He leans back against the chair his head resting on Draco's leg.  
  
Harry doesn't remember there being a chair, but he likes the soft velvet feel of the upholstery against his back. He likes the way Draco reaches down and smoothes his hair out.   
  
"Fuck Potter, you're like ice." Draco says, but his hand doesn't leave Harry's shoulder. Harry just smiles and leans back, his legs spreading out on the floor, toes touching the television. Harry thinks Draco is soft, likes the feel of those sweaters and slacks that are always perfectly pressed, no matter what. He's always warm too; it's odd that he seems to attract all the heat in the room, everything seems to come to Draco, and Harry thinks, maybe that's how it's always been.   
  
"You'd move us somewhere?" Harry asks and for a moment Draco sees fairytale castles, or a manor with sheep and chickens, servant girls that call you sir and have large, heaving bosoms. Draco's hand halts its movement and Harry turns and looks at him, and things seem very still for a moment. Draco's lips are parted on the cusp of saying something, when Harry breaks his fairytale.   
  
"Like I'd go anywhere with you." He snorts and turns back to the television and uses his foot to turn the sound up, so that the ringing and the cheers of the game show drown them both.  
  
*****  
  
Oh, he would. They'd both go and Draco wants to demand that they leave, he leave - something. Right then, he'll make the grand stand and demand that something change. He can't be the puppet master to a corpse, to this living breathing dead thing calling himself Harry Potter.   
  
He's a skeleton now. He's a mess of sharp planes, knobby bones, and hollow eyes, just a walking, talking, never closing wound.   
  
Draco never meant to be a nursemaid, wrapping useless bandages around his wounded enemy. He's not meant to be here. He should have died and left Draco his perfect world.   
  
Draco isn't supposed to worry about him and wish he'd let him buy him clothes. He kicks him, curses him, and leaves him lying on the floor. Draco still smiles when Harry screams, but finds himself leaving a blanket on top of him when he passes out.   
  
This, Draco believes, is inexcusable.   
  
*****  
  
Harry wakes up on soft sheets, he's warm and he doesn't remember the last time that happened. There's a pillow and someone breathing next to him. He sniffles and wipes his arm across his face, smearing blood and spit across. His back hurts, he doesn't even feel like sitting up. He rolls over to see Draco, eyes open, staring at him.   
  
Staring at this man-child that lay in the bed next to him, sharing a half gone cigarette; there was always a smoke afterwards. He didn't smile as he leaned back against the bed frame adjusting his glasses.   
  
"Good to see you're awake," Draco says. His face is blank, and Harry doesn't know what to say. Thank you, fuck off, I hate you, are all just words that wouldn't mean anything, and if they did, they wouldn't mean the right thing. He just leans over and kisses him gently on the forehead. Draco flinches but lets it happen anyway. They pull apart quickly, hesitant looks and confusion all over both of them. Harry leans back, arms tucked behind his head.  
  
"You're welcome." Draco says shortly as he pushes himself out of the bed. Harry doesn't pay any attention to him, he hears him banging around, water running as he washes up, looking for clothes. He mutters to himself the whole time. Harry can't understand what he's saying.  
  
Harry is quite all right with silences, if no one is talking that means things are at least normal. There is nothing to fix, nothing to be upset and scream about. Draco, however, is never pleasant or normal, things never seem to meet whatever standard he's holding for them, and so he talks and mutters and growls ineffectually about them.  
  
It amuses Harry, the way these mindless utterances seem to calm the other man down. It's as if saying the world is crap will make the world shift and change to fit his will. The world does always seem to shift to please Draco. The rocks, grass, leaves, and animals seem to part way for him.   
  
Draco sits on the bed tying his shoes; he won't look at him. Harry pokes him with his toes repeatedly. He laughs when Draco gets frustrated and drops his shoe. It is when he laughs that a shoe nearly hits him in the face. He's still laughing when he throws the shoe back at Draco.  
  
Draco stands and stares at him, arms across his chest. The second shoe is thrown on with much force and grandeur and then he walks out, as if parting the sea in front of him.   
  
*****  
  
He's not going back. No, he's done with being nursemaid to the ever bleeding messiah. He buys him liquor and cigarettes, then gives him his daily dose of pain. He leaves him a mess, begging for more.   
  
He needs to leave. He's gone, right? Draco's out the door, leaving Potter to spiral down on his own.   
  
He figures it will be a week before they find his body somewhere. He'll have to pretend to be surprised. He'll smile because the boy is dead, and isn't it great to get rid of him?  
  
No, no it isn't.   
  
He was at the bottom of the stairs, foot crossing the threshold to the outside world. Dirty, cold air, car horns and people screaming; he goes back to his own wailing mess upstairs.   
  
It's only ten steps on each flight, three flights all together. It takes too long, though when he's at the door he knows this trip didn't take anywhere near long enough.   
  
He opens the door slowly, counting. Doesn't want to open it too fast, but really, how fucking long should it take to open a door?   
  
For a moment he hopes he's already dead. He can say he did it, it would be wonderful and all this would be done.   
  
No, he's breathing, he can tell from the ring of smoke coming from the bed. He's still lying there, sheets pulled over his naked body, cigarette hanging from his mouth.   
  
"Back so soon?" he mutters, not bothering to look at Draco. As if he knew he'd be back. Fuck him.   
  
"You think you could get rid of me?"   
  
"Hoping I would." He answers back. His voice is soft, short. He's still not looking at Draco.  
  
Liar.  
  
Draco sits down, forcing Harry to slide over to make room. He doesn't understand this, or maybe he does and just isn't admitting it.  
  
No, he really doesn't. He's moving towards Harry, carefully at first. Draco tries to remember where Harry was hurt last night. He can see a big bruise on the left side, the still dried blood on his top lip.   
  
It's hard, harder than he means it to be. At first he feels as if he's attacking him; Potter lying there quietly, letting Draco's lips kiss his, there could as well be anything beneath him. He pushes harder and harder, forgetting about the bruised ribs and he tastes the acrid taste of Harry's blood on his lips. He pushes and pushes and wonders if or when Potter will throw him off.   
  
He kisses until he's pulling away gasping for breath.   
  
And yet the bastard lies there; he doesn't smile or frown or do anything but blink at Draco and mourn the cigarette that he no longer has. He taps his fingers a bit on the bed, Draco wonders what that means.   
  
It doesn't mean anything, they just sit there counting time. He's staring at Harry and Harry's staring at nothing.  
  
*****  
  
That wasn't a kiss, not that Harry knows much about kisses. Accidental lip touching with Cho, a few quick hurried exchanges of spit with Ginny; her hands and lips always seemed to know more than his did though. But he knew that was not a kiss. It was a declaration, marked in blood, scrawled across the wall to see. It was a screaming howl demanding to be silenced.   
  
It's Draco laying it all bare and open to him and demanding that Harry part the seas and follow.   
  
Harry doesn't understand this. He wants the violence and pain. He gets that, open wounds and bruises. He doesn't understand soft touches and crushing lips. He's meant to bleed and fight and die.   
  
Draco's not talking to him anymore, not that he ever talks to him that much anyway. He talks at him, around him, and about him, but never to him. Talking with someone needs a give and take, Draco does not give and he has yet to learn that Harry doesn't have anything to take.   
  
Harry's still lying on the bed; he's smoked an entire pack of cigarettes today. One after another, a barricade of butts has formed around the bed.   
  
Draco sits across the room in the chair that suddenly appeared one day. He's staring at the television, the light flickering across his face. He rolls over, lying on his side.  
  
"Draco." He's ignoring him, won't turn around. Nothing. Harry throws the empty cigarette pack across the room. He smiles when Draco turns and looks at him, finally. "I'm out of cigarettes."   
  
"I am *not* your lapdog." Draco snaps back. He's glaring at him now, blues eyes trying to bore through Harry.   
  
Harry is amused.   
  
"What are you watching?" He's not moving from this bed, not an centimeter. Draco doesn't respond. Just sits there staring, he turns the volume up. "Is it the porn? Girls doing unpleasant things with eggplants?" He smiles when Draco rolls his eyes at him.   
  
No, still not moving.   
  
He keeps on, question after question, babble about guessing what the various stains on the walls are, complaining about not having any cigarettes.  
  
Draco breaks finally,   
  
"Won't you leave me the fuck alone?" Draco yells.  
  
"Well this is my place, you can leave whenever you want to." Harry answers back, he rolls back over on the bed. It's a lie anyway; it's been their place for a while now. The mysterious chair, the sheets and blankets on the bed, the food in the refrigerator. The thing is, Harry is an excellent liar.  
  
Draco's standing at the foot of the bed now, face twisted up in anger, red.   
  
"Do it," Harry commands. He's leaning back and ready. It's early still, but it's time when he says it is.   
  
"No."   
  
"Oh come on," he whines.   
  
Draco stands firm, arms down to his sides, Harry looks at him and feels his resolve fading.  
  
He wins.  
  
*****  
  
He doesn't want to, no wait, he does. Because, it's wonderful to watch him in pain. The boy is a writhing mass of skin and bone that Draco loves to watch. Maybe it's the screaming that bothers him.  
  
Oh yeah, it bothers him, when Harry falls with a thud to floor, his voice straining to cry out. Draco feels his body tingling. He gets hard.   
  
Oh how he hates him.  
  
He hates that he's so bloody important; he hates that he bends and tears and leaves little bits of himself all over Draco. He hates that he's alive and he hates that he seems to be running so hard toward the grave. He hates him when he's smiling and he hates him when his blood is spilling onto Draco's hands. He hates being caught in the maddening cycle and he wants to jump off and head for safety, reach out and cling to the last bit of tattered sanity there is left.  
  
He's here, screaming curses and waving his wand, the flick of his wrist making the man in front of him convulse.   
  
He can't do it, too many bruises, too much blood. It's too fucking easy. It hurts too much.  
  
Harry's out now, eyes rolled back in his head. Draco pulls him from the floor and onto the bed. He wraps his arms around him, carefully pulling him in. He wraps them up in soft soft sheets and he pretends they aren't here. It's a big bed with satin sheets and feather pillows. Birds are singing at the window and, none of this, these scars, this pain is real.   
  
He kisses him hard on the forehead; Harry's body is still lying still beneath him. He falls asleep holding him.  
  
*****  
  
The rules are different now. Harry knows exactly what Draco wants from him. This is a refreshing change actually. He wakes up to the other mans's frantic demanding touches, the way he talks to him between kisses, the warm breath in his ears in the early morning.   
  
He gives him bandages and beer, there are always cigarettes in the bedside table. He wonders how far he can push him, what it will take to make him leave. He still itches for the curse, the nightly blood letting that Draco will give him.   
  
He loses himself for days sometimes; Draco's picking up all kinds of new magic. Things that don't just hurt, they fucking burn and tear at skin, leave him out for days.   
  
He wakes up with bandages across his chest, Draco staring at him. Harry just smiles,  
  
"How long this time?" When he tries to move his arms there's a searing pain in his sides.  
  
"Days, weeks, years, does it matter?" He sneers. Harry looks around the room as best he can,  
  
"A few days then?" Draco stares at him, hooded eyes, and nods. He reaches onto the bed and pulls from his coat pocket a pack of cigarettes. He tosses them to Harry, the package landing neatly next to his head. "Why don't you light it for me?" he asks.  
  
Draco obliges.   
  
[the end] 


End file.
